Bracegirdle moved around to the other side of the desk. Maisie watched, curious, for his move had placed a substantial piece of furniture between them at the mention of the problems in the village.
“Don’t know much about the village, not specifically.”
“Oh? I assumed you lived in the village, Mr. Bracegirdle.”
“I do, yes, but I don’t know much about the fires.” He shrugged. “Mind you, there was the accident at Fred Yeoman’s the other night—silly bugger threw out the ashes and started it himself.”
Maisie knew there was little to be gained from the conversation, though she wanted to press the foreman just a little more. “Do you remember the Zeppelin raid?”
“Don’t forget a thing like that.”
“No, I shouldn’t wonder. I understand the local baker and his family were killed when a bomb hit their shop, for of course they lived upstairs.”
“That’s right.”
“And no one has ever built on the land. Or even put up a memorial.”
He shrugged again. “Best left as it is. They’re buried in the churchyard.”
“I know, but I thought—”
Bracegirdle looked at the clock on the wall behind him. “Well, I haven’t got the time to sit about, got work to do. If that’s all, miss—”
“Of course.” Maisie stood up, brushing her hand across the fabric at the back of her skirt to remove dust. “Thank you for seeing me.”
He nodded and turned to leave, via the door leading into the works.
MAISIE HAD NOW confirmed the impression she had of Sandermere, a spendthrift who was likely entranced by the thrill of expenditure and the attention that accompanies the impression of having considerable wealth. He liked spending money. He liked being a man of commerce, of land, but he had no aptitude for either and no wise counsel to direct him—if he had cared to listen. She was in no doubt, now, that her suspicion—as put to James Compton— that Sandermere was embezzling his insurers was correct. He had probably received compensation for both the stable fire and for the damage to the brickworks. And what of the items lost when the mansion was burgled? Had he claimed already for that loss? There was a police report, though the suspects were probably released by now, so there might be a lapse of time before he received those funds. How desperate was he? Maisie suspected that the man’s weakness was akin to those who are unaware of their limits with alcohol, except his addiction was to money and, more particularly, to the thrill of profligacy and to the attention such behavior garnered. If he had nothing, he would be like the addict deprived of his drug—what, then, might he do next? Would his craving for attention, which she thought might be the root of his character deficiencies, lead him to set fires, to pyromania? Or would other aspects of his life suffer a descent, due to lack of control?
She brushed off the back of her skirt again, before she took her seat in the MG, and drove out of the brickworks and across to the farm where Billy and his family were working. Taking her knapsack, in which she’d placed a flask of hot tea, she locked the motor car and began walking toward the hop-gardens, following the sound of voices in the distance, like a dog nosing a scent. The hop-gardens already picked seemed desolate. Where there had been a full, rich, green crop, a hundred or so pickers hard at work, and the noise of talk, laughter and singing filling the air, the land now seemed bereft, with only the ghostly remains of a verdant harvest. There was a shallow incline on the path ahead, on the other side of which, set to one side, was a tap where people came throughout the day to fill a bottle or a kettle or to wash the knee of a child who had fallen while playing. She was surprised to come across Sandermere’s horse, grazing on the verge, and thought that perhaps the landowner had stopped to quench his thirst. But as she came over the hill, she heard a scream and was just in time to see Sandermere take Paishey Webb by the arm and pull her to him. At first, Maisie could hardly believe the scene before her or what the man was thinking to do such a thing. Each movement seemed to be in slow motion, but barely a second passed before the gypsy shrieked again and again, trying to escape Sandermere’s grasp. She kicked out at him, her scarf pulling back as he took hold of her hair, then put his finger to her hooped earring, and dragged it through the skin of her lobe. She cried out in pain and kicked again, desperate to save herself.
Maisie lost no time in running toward the pair, shouting, “Leave her alone! Stop!” And then, louder, “Help! Help!”
But Sandermere did not stop, pulling Paishey to him as if to press his lips to her neck, even as blood ran from her torn ear to his mouth. Another voice, stronger and louder, joined Maisie’s. Billy Beale had just walked up the hill from the hop-garden toward the tap. Dropping the kettle he had brought to fill, he launched himself at Sandermere and dragged him away. Though he was not the stronger man, Billy was faster and drew back his fist before Sandermere could even curl his fingers. The punch struck home, smashing Sandermere’s nose so that blood sprayed across his shirt and down his face.
“You nasty git, you bleedin’ nasty piece of work. I don’t care who you are, you bugger off out of ’ere before I kill you! So ’elp me, I’ll kill you, you bastard!”
As Sandermere staggered away, pulled himself onto his horse, and galloped off along the farm road, Maisie took Paishey in her arms. More people, locals and gypsies alike, came running from the hop-garden, drawn by the screams and shouting. Webb was in the crowd, pushing others aside when he saw Maisie and Billy with his wife.
“You, gorja! What—”
“He saved my honor, Webb,” said Paishey. “Leave’n him and her alone.” She wiped her hand across her face, smearing the profusion of blood.
Maisie pulled a handkerchief from her knapsack, ran cold water onto it from the tap, and held the cloth to Paishey’s ear. “Come sit on the verge, and let me have a look.”
Paishey allowed Maisie to lead her, while Billy explained to Webb what had happened. Maisie saw Webb turn as if to go after Sandermere, but Billy braced himself against the gypsy. “I know how you feel, mate, but calm down. He’ll have the law on you like a ton of bricks if you go after him now. You can’t win—you’ll end up inside for the rest of your life. Then where will your little nipper be, or your missus?”
Webb raised his hands to either side of the crown of his hat and then let them slump at his sides. He turned away from the crowd and screamed as if to a god who could not hear. It was a loud, impassioned cry that came not from the throat but from deep inside his body, and it was enough to begin to disperse the onlookers. Paishey ran to
